“But, yes, I say. Open the gate, Nicette. And for what is this great heap of fodder?” “It is for my beautiful _génisse_--Madeleine of the white star.” She pushed open the gate. Within, to one side, was a low trellised lodge, set within the forward apex of an elliptical patch of garden. Farther back was a byre, and behind all a lofty bank of trees. A fine avenue of Spanish chestnuts led on to the house, which was here hidden from view. “Whither?” said Ned. She intimated the rearward shed, with a half-audible note of deprecation. He shouldered and carried the truss to its destination. A liquid-eyed cow, with a rayed splash of white on its forehead, blew a sweet breath of wonder as he entered. Within, all was daintily clean and fragrant. “Now,” said he, “I must go on to the chateau. But I shall come again, Nicette, and paint you into a picture.” The girl stood among the phloxes utterly embarrassed. He made her a grave salutation and pursued his way to the house. At a turn of the drive he came in view of the latter--a sombre grey building, sparely windowed, and with a peak-roofed tower--emblem of nobility--caught into one of its many angles. A weed-cumbered moat, with a little decrepit stream of water slinking through the tangle of its bed, surrounded the walls; and in front of the moat, as he encountered it, a neglected garden fell away in half-obliterated terraces. Here and there, placed in odd coigns of leafiness, decayed wooden statues of fauns and dryads, once painted “proper”--or otherwise--in flesh tints, had yielded their complexions piecemeal to the rasp of Time; and, indeed, the whole place seemed withdrawn from the considerations of order. Much wondering, Ned crossed an indifferent bridge--long ceased, it would appear, from its uses of draught--and found himself facing the massive stone portal of the chateau. “There is a canker hath gnawed here since my uncle’s day,” thought he, and laid hold of a long iron bell-pull. The thing came down reluctant, and leapt sullenly from his grasp, and the clank of its answer called up a whole mob of echoes. The door was opened by an unliveried young fellow--a mere peasant of the fields by his appearance. “M. de St Denys? But, yes; monsieur would be at home to receive--unless, indeed, he were not yet out of bed.” Ned recalled a figure prostrate on the wreck of a guitar. “Convey this letter to your master,” said he; “and show me where I may wait.” He entered a high, resounding hall. A boar’s head set at him from above a door in a petrified snarl. Opposite, a great dark picture--fruit, flowers, game--by Jan de Heem, made a slumberous core of richness in the gloom. These, with a heavy chair or two, were the only furniture.